


Not Waving But Drowning

by JoJo



Series: Getting a Grip [3]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Early Work, Episode Related, Episode: s02e12 Bloodbath, Gen, Original Character(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/pseuds/JoJo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky's in freefall...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Waving But Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to David, who went to the edge and was brought back by the love of a good friend, and to James, who did not come back

"I was much further out than you thought.  
And not waving, but drowning."  
(Stevie Smith)

The rhythmic thumping was familiar enough to Benny at the backdoor. It was a little riff established from day one, and he knew at once who was on the other side playing it. When he released the security switch there was a loud click and the heavy door swung inwards.

"You've given up the front door for good then?" he said as a tall man came in from the shadows.

"Just taking all the necessary precautions, Ben," said the man. He had a bag of groceries in his arms.

Benny peered in the top of the bag. "Cooking again? You really are full-time."

"Full-time roomie, bodyguard and chef." _And nurse. And shrink._ "It's a tough job, Ben, but somebody's got to do it."

"Is that right? Well have a good one, Hutch. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, night, Benny."

Hutch slipped out into the corridor and went for the elevator. Inside it was shiny and peaceful. Anyone who worked in the offices all around was long gone for the night. He poked a finger into the button, shaking his head to himself as he did nearly every day. A safe house on the eighteenth floor. It would have been funny if it wasn't so scary.

Outside apartment 1810 he found an elbow to knock on the door. Huggy Bear answered it. He was wearing an apron.

"We playing dress-up?" Hutch asked, dumping the groceries into his arms.

Huggy shut the door with his hip. "I made pancakes earlier," he said.

"Oh yeah? How did they go down?"

"He said they were too heavy and he couldn't eat them."

Hutch put his jacket and gun holster on a chair. He peered through to the main room.

"Your boy's crashed in the bedroom," Huggy told him.

Hutch picked his Python out of the holster. He opened up a closet door along the passage and put the gun inside on the top shelf, under a box, then he followed Huggy into the kitchen. Across the main room the skyline was clearly visible twinkling in the dark. The doors to the balcony were open.

"This is a nice place," Huggy said. "For a couple of fancypants cops. What was wrong with that other beat anyhow? That mouse-cage?"

"Well you know how it is, Hug. Two mice in a small cage. We couldn't make babies together so the only thing left to do would be eat each other."

"I can see why you would," Huggy said darkly.

"Appreciate you coming over, Hug."

"You look terrible," the Bear commented. "Is there no rest, even in this luxury penthouse suite with views downtown?"

"Oh it's... just... Starsk has... trouble sleeping. Sometimes we just have to sit it out. The night, I mean."

Huggy thought hard but said nothing. Things seemed pretty much a mess, and he was aware he didn't know the half of it. Starsky suspended for threatening behaviour to a suspect, and now busy dropping his marbles one by one. Change of safe house to this place on top of seventeen floors of offices. Hutch twitchier than a hen expecting a fox to get into the coop.

"So, what you do all day?" Hutch asked, digging into the grocery bag and extracting a bunch of celery. Huggy gazed at him incredulously as he broke off a stick and bit into it.

"Well aside from watching Mr. Sunshine pacing around this joint like a caged tiger, and making pancakes he wouldn't eat... we played poker... and he glued lots of little bits of plastic together and said it was an F-15 fighter bomber. Wanted to throw it off the balcony to see if it would fly."

"He wanted to throw it off the balcony," Hutch repeated.

"Yeah. Why the face? It's not like he was going to throw himself off."

Hutch bit hard into the celery stick. "Could hurt someone down the bottom," he said, "if you were stupid enough to throw down a model airplane."

"Hey," said a cross voice at that point and they both turned to see Starsky coming out of a door across the room. He was holding a pillow to his chest and he looked like he had been fighting it. "I may be crazy," he said, shading his eyes slightly against the lights, "but I'm not deaf." He padded across to them, still clutching the pillow.

Hutch waved the celery stick at him in greeting.

"That dinner?" he asked without enthusiasm.

"You can do a lot with celery, Starsk."

"Yeah, I can think of a few things." He looked at Huggy. "You stayin to help Bugs Bunny eat all this? Because I'm not having any."

"Come on, Starsk. You don't know what else I got in this bag. Could be something you like."

Starsky turned away from the counter restlessly. "If you say so."

Hutch tried to shrug in an easy manner. "He's pretty much cross with me all the time," he explained to Huggy.

Huggy looked at his watch. "Much as I'd like to stay," he said, "I got a business to oversee, a new waitress starting tonight and some brothers waiting to talk to me about something important."

"Something important and legal?" Hutch questioned, getting up to escort him to the door.

"I spend all day minding your precious goods and you ask me that?" He looked over Hutch's shoulder. "Hey, Starsky. Take it easy, OK?"

A grunt. A flick of the hand in a farewell gesture.

"Thanks, Hug," said Hutch as Huggy passed through the door into the purple-carpeted corridor.

"That's some job you got, Hutch. Call me."

"Will do."

The door shut. Hutch sent one little glance up at the closed closet door as he passed. Starsky was out on the balcony staring at the view. He still had the pillow under one arm. Hutch went and emptied all the groceries on the counter-top. The kitchen was very neat, despite his best efforts this morning. Huggy, like Starsky, was tidy-minded.

"You really not going to eat?" he called out.

Starsky turned and came in. "Depends on what kind of pizza you order."

"Hey, I'm trying to keep you healthy. Bad enough for you sat around in here all day every day watching TV without you filling your face with crap."

"Let's not talk about food," Starsky suggested. "We'll only have a falling-out. Suppose you tell me what you did today? Huh?"

Hutch carried on rummaging through a drawer for a knife, thinking rapidly to himself. Starsky did not like to banter. He was interested to the point of obsession with what was happening at work, but Hutch had no intention of telling him the details of the day. He had no intention of telling him he had spent a gut-wrenching hour in an interrogation room with Jermaine Boyd Black and his lawyer. Or that Boyd Black was claiming ten more corpses in various locations around the city. Or that his final words as Hutch got up to leave were "You keeping the Star Man away from his pistol?"

"Really had kind of a boring day, Starsk."

He found the knife and shut the drawer.

"Yeah, but you're working the case, right?"

Starsky had come over and was leaning across the counter.

"I... yes... I'm working the case. With the guys. Just helping out. And doing other things."

"So what happened today? On the case?"

Hutch looked over at him. He had been obliged to work with quite an array of different people masquerading as his partner over the last weeks, but this one.... man, this one... The dull-eyed, flat-voiced Starsky, plainly in pieces, but holding on to a brittle kind of control with all the tenacity of a Pit Bull Terrier.

"We heard from the lawyer," said Hutch, plucking out a small nugget of truth. It was no good trying to be too protective. Starsky could be pretty sneaky when he was on his own with the phone.

"And?"

"Oh, I guess it's what you'd expect. They want to bring charges." 'Thrown off the force for good.' Those were the lawyer's exact words.

"OK, and what are Internal Affairs saying?"

Hutch sliced a carrot and held out one half to Starsky, but the look he got was enough to freeze it to his fingers. "Well you know, it's hard to believe, but IA might just be your friends in all this. Their line is that you were under intolerable pressure, but the suspension remains pending a full investigation."

"A full investigation," said Starsky in disgust. "It would take me half a minute to tell them what I said and did. You heard it. Jay heard it. That woman heard it. That makes about two minutes' testimony. Oh yeah... Jermaine. Add another minute because he's gotta say how scared he was and how much I hurt him." He craned over the worktop then to see what Hutch was pouring into a pan. "Are those things lentils? Hutch, what are you tryin to do to me?"

"Full of protein," Hutch said. "Keep your strength up."

"For what?"

"Picking up the TV remote. Launching F-18s off the balcony. That kinda stuff."

"It was an F-15," Starsky growled at him. "I only said it to wind Huggy up. I didn't mean I was gonna throw it. I say lots of stuff I don't mean."

They locked eyes for a second. Hutch had hardly been able to tear his mind away from the fact that he was preparing dinner with the one sharp knife left in the apartment and that he had surreptitiously removed all the others. He tried so hard to keep off this topic. To let Starsky find a way to be, while they figured out how to help him. But Starsky would drag it up. Challenge him to believe the worst.

"Did you call Rita Riley?" Hutch asked finally.

"Sorta."

"Well did you or didn't you?"

"Jeepers, Hutch. If you were a foot shorter and a foot wider you'd be a dead ringer for my Aunt Rosie. She used to stand in the kitchen and wave a wooden spoon at me, just like that."

Good deflection. Not good enough though.

"So you spoke to her?"

"No, I spoke to someone who works with her. Said she'd ask her to call."

"And if she calls, you'll ask her to come see you, right?"

"Listen, Hutch. This dinner is shaping up pretty badly already. You trying to ruin it completely? It's not my idea to have Rita Riley come and rehabilitate me. I'm not a convert."

"She might... have some ideas."

"Yeah, like having me locked up in some... facility."

"That what you're afraid of?"

"No, I'm afraid of those lentils." He picked up an orange from a bowl of fruit and began to toss it about from one hand to another. Then he turned and pitched it across the room so it landed in the corner of the black wingback chair. It was the one Hutch usually sat in some time during the small hours waiting for Starsky to come stumbling out of the bathroom, sick, disoriented, desperate. Waiting for a sign that Starsky would let him help. Which was less than ever.

"You're doing fine, Hutch," Starsky said, retrieving the orange and casting about for another target.

"I'm sorry?"

"Listen, I know you hide your gun every night. Don't know where, but I know you move it about. That's OK. I don't go looking for it. That knife is good for chopping carrots. Razor's just dandy for shaving. Only that, know what I'm saying? And I don't have any plans to jump. You kidding? Eighteen floors? Can't think of much else. Told ya what I feel about light fittings."

Hutch shut his eyes and breathed in hard several times. Starsky had abandoned the orange and was poking about in a pile of car magazines. Even if he hadn't spoken to Rita Riley, Hutch had. She had given him a little list of things to worry about and they were all pretty much checked already.

_Impaired concentration._ Yeah, he watches anything and everything on TV, but only for about five minutes at a time. _Irritability._ What can I tell you about that? He doesn't have another setting. _Sleep disturbance._ Now that's a pretty term for the pain and terror he goes through most nights. As for the defensive mechanisms, repression, displacement, gallows humor and whatnot... well, we have all of those in one package about every five minutes.

"You're doing fine," repeated Starsky without looking up. "I'm putting you through it. I know that."

Hutch opened his eyes. Doing fine? What, fine because you haven't found the space and time yet to put a bullet through your brain? "Can't remember, Starsk," he said. "Do you like a lotta garlic or a little?"

"Whatever's in the recipe." Man, that voice. Like he was clinging on to the ability to speak with his fingernails. Pushing out the words like each one was a waste of time. The person standing over there with the magazine in his hands (why didn't he sit down and look at it for Pete's sake?), the person he figured he knew better than anyone else in the world, was like a complete stranger to him. Hutch stirred at the sizzling contents of the pan with his spoon.

"Do you reckon you could see Ridgeway from the other side of the building?" Starsky asked.

"You want to see Ridgeway?"

"Hutch, will you lose that tone of yours for a second? That treading on eggshells tone? If I didn't want to see Ridgeway I wouldn't have asked."

Long day, difficult day, getting through it somehow with this creeping, paralysing anxiety hanging over him. His best friend, lacking any of the definition by which Hutch could judge things, pushing him. Pushing him away. Pushing him to the limit.

Hutch laid the spoon down. He came out of the kitchen and went to fetch his jacket.

"Where ya going?"

"For some fresh air."

"So get it on the balcony."

"I'm going out for a while," said Hutch through gritted teeth. He got out of the door before he heard any reply. His steps along the carpet outside were fast, unnaturally fast. Running away steps. Angry steps. In the elevator riding down he put the jacket on, and immediately felt the sensation of having no holster.

No holster. No gun. His hand shot out to stop the elevator.

This is ridiculous, plain ridiculous, he told himself, stomping back up the corridor to 1810. What's he going to do? Comb the place to find it as soon as I'm out the door? He fumbled in his pants pocket for the key. The door opened. He strode in, trying to look calm.

"Forget something?" Starsky called out. He was on his knees by one of the kitchen cupboards, rifling through it.

"What are you looking for?" Hutch said.

"Where have you hidden it?"

"What? Hidden what?"

"The chilli powder, bozo. Seein as you've abandoned this dinner I thought I'd try and rescue it."

"Oh. It's in the cupboard up top. Don't put too much in."

Starsky snorted. "Betcha thought I was looking for your gun, huh? It's OK, you get it, I won't watch."

"I'm taking it with me."

"Good plan. I told Dobey once you wouldn't go and see your mother without your gun."

"You did? That's crazy, Starsk. I've never taken my gun to my mother's."

"I was trying to get a point across. Don't be long now. This can only use a little simmer."

There was a smile aching to get to Hutch's lips, but it hung back.

"See you in a bit," he said. "Don't ruin it."

Starsky made a face. "Something with lentils in?" he said. "How can that possibly be ruined?"

*

In the night Hutch woke up before he had even heard anything. He woke up to a silence that never seemed right. They were so well soundproofed up here that you couldn't hear the slightest breath of the wind that surely buffeted the top of this building. Or a single sound of the street. Hutch was used to opening his eyes occasionally to the sound of a siren very close by, or people walking under the windows outside Venice Place.

The bed was stupendously comfortable too. The kind of bed you'd pay way too many dollars to spend one night in. The bedroom he had was so big even he couldn't manage to make much of a mess in it. Big, downy pillows. Downy, cradling pillows that just begged you to fall asleep on them. Starsk was in the habit of carrying one around with him. As if on cue Hutch heard the adjacent bedroom door open. He sat up at once and got his feet on to the lush pile of the bedroom rug. Out in the main room Starsky was wandering.

"You awake?" Hutch asked as he came out into the quiet. A few nights ago he had watched as his partner had taken his pillow for a sleepwalk around the apartment.

"Of course I'm awake," Starsky's voice grumbled back at him. "I wouldn't be walking around if I wasn't awake, would I? Just getting some water. Go back to bed." He got his water and drank it, diligently rinsing out the glass and putting it on the drainer. Then he came back out of the kitchen and saw Hutch standing there. It was dark and neither of them could see the other's face. Starsky came over and placed an arm around his friend's shoulder.

"You gotta go to work tomorrow, Hutchinson," he said in a low, soothing voice, an unexpected and familiar voice that caused a lump to rise in Hutch's throat, cutting off his airway. "You need to sleep. I can't stand to see you puttin yourself through this for me. Everything's going to be fine. OK? Go on back to bed." He moved his arm and stroked one hand twice down the back of Hutch's hair. Then he turned and went back into his bedroom and shut the door.

Hutch stood where he was for a second, the back of his neck tingling. When had Starsky last voluntarily got that close to him? When had he last offered up anything like that? Any support, any comfort? It had to be months and months. Way before Marcus was even arrested. He let tears spring up, unknown and unseen. Are you angry about that, Hutchinson? Do you feel full of resentment and bitterness that your partner isn't there for you? He indulged in it just for a while, letting the warm waves of self-pity lap around him in the dark. Boy, I can even play the lousy therapist with myself. For the love of God, he may be crazy but he makes more sense than you. Do as the man says. Go on back to bed.

He laid his head into the downy pillow. Across his shoulder he could almost feel the imprint of Starsky's arm. A reminder of everything that was at stake.

*

The sound of rummaging in the corridor brought Starsky round next morning. The first thing he registered was that he was lying on the couch.

How the hell did I get here? I didn't start out here.

The second was that Hutch was looking for something.

I know what you're doing, Blondie, and now I know ya hid it in the closet.

He heard the squeak of leather as his partner's holster was shouldered on, the sound of the Python being tucked in, and then Hutch stepping ever so quietly to the door. As it closed behind him a third fact registered.

He made coffee.

Starsky looked around him as he got up, taking in the surroundings. It must be... what?... the eighth or ninth day here and still it was alien. No sooner had they arrested Boyd Black than Mitchell McCarthy had been spotted hanging around near Mister Kleen's and then promptly disappeared again. Dobey had spirited them out of Hutch's place in double-quick time and transferred them up here. Top floor of the Marshall-Daneman building.

Nobody knows you can live up here. The Cell with the Best View in Town.

And Starsky had not been out since.

How do they think this is going to help?

Alone most days, prowling around the luxurious interior, Starsky had nothing much to do but think of all those things that had Hutch in a tailspin. And think of how foolish he had been to let Hutch get such a clear glimpse of what lay beneath.

Now look at him. Dragging it around with him all the time, wondering if today is going to be the day.

Starsky poured some coffee and took it out on the balcony. A hazy blue sky, a breath of wind. Down below the crawling ants. He didn't know if today was going to be the day, but it didn't seem like it. All he knew was that something had been let out of a box, and he couldn't get it back in. And not heading Hutch off at the pass when he had a chance was about the stupidest thing he had ever done.

Wrong side of the building. Wrong side for Ridgeway, wrong side for the ocean. Damn. Forgot to ask Hutch to get another roll of film. I'm gonna be mad with you, Hutchinson, if you don't call me and let me know what's going down today. If I find out that something happened and you didn't tell me, right away, then... well, I'm gonna be mad with you.

The coffee sat bad-temperedly in his stomach. He felt weak enough that he knew he should eat, but unable to find the motivation to get anything. What might seem appetising at first would inevitably suddenly become disgusting. It was best to accidentally find himself with a cookie jar in his hand. When that happened there wasn't time to turn against the cookies until he had wolfed down four or five. He thought of Huggy Bear's pancakes. Starsky had even requested pancakes, but any desire for them had evaporated the minute the plate was before him.

Poor Hug. Ya got me through yesterday, but man did I give you the runaround.

His thoughts, quite calm as he had got up, were starting to race around faster now.

Wish Hutch was here.

Starsky took a little walk up and down the apartment. It was a beautiful morning, light and sunny, the shiny surfaces glinting, the carpet dappled. He was starting to feel a little panicky. He was going to cover a lot of ground today, being on his own. Being on the move could keep the more intrusive thoughts at bay, and the pillow and the coffee cup could come with him.

So, how are you going to get through today? Call a few people? Scratch that -- too many questions to answer. Watch back-to-back movies? Maybe -- if there's singing. Make that Hornet and watch it go at Mach-2 off the balcony? Why do you want to throw things offa there anyhow? You're being childish and destructive. What's the time? Hutch'll be at work by now. He might ring soon. Wish he would. Could do with it now. Come on, Hutch, call me. I need you to call me. Call and tell me you've got McCarthy, and then we'll have a chance.

He was on the balcony when the phone rang and he sauntered to answer it.

"Alcatraz Towers. Who's calling?"

"Funny, Starsky. It's me. How ya doing?"

"I'm awake," said Starsky, unable to keep the sudden snarl out of his voice. "I'm standing up. If you want anymore than that you've come to the wrong place."

"Was there something you said you needed?"

"A roll of film."

"OK. You got it."

"Anything happenin?"

"Nah, nothing much."

"Well don't let me keep you from it."

"Come on, Starsk. I called because I wanted to talk."

"Well I haven't got time. I gotta go change channels."

"Alright, Starsk. I'll call you later."

"You do that."

He put the phone down.

Then he sat down and put his head in his hands. He had not intended to say a single one of those words. Hutch didn't deserve to be treated so shabbily.

God, Hutch, I wish you were here. Wish you could just come and sit next to me. Sit right here next to me and not leave. Ignore everything I say. Don't let me be alone. I wish you could... just be with me, all day, all night, until this thing goes away.

*

"You're early," said Benny when Hutch came through just after four o'clock.

"I got lucky," Hutch replied. "And I got raspberry ripple," and he held up a tub of ice-cream.

"Hmph. You sure you haven't got a secret kid up there with chicken pox?"

"No, no chicken pox. Just a regular kid."

"I took up a newspaper at my break time," Benny said. "You kid musta been taking a shower. So I left it outside."

"He didn't answer the door?"

"No, not this time."

"When was this, Ben?"

The doorman scratched his head. Captain Dobey had given him some oddball situations up there in 1810 in the past, but this one had to take the cake. "I dunno, maybe an hour ago."

Funny time to be taking a shower.

Balancing the cold tub in the palm of his hand, Hutch went along to the elevator. There were people in suits about at this time of day. He felt conspicuously out of place. The women in the elevator, both executive types, looked at him in mild curiosity. Hutch smiled politely. One of them froze him out. The other one hoiked her eyebrow, just a tiny bit. Her eyes flicked up and down him, then looked away. Both of them got out on the tenth.

Is there anyone else up here?

As usual, the corridor on the 18th floor was quiet and empty. They never heard anything up here. Outside 1810 Benny's newspaper lay on the carpet untouched. Hutch listened carefully. As he got the key in the lock and pushed open the door he was aware that the usual hum of the TV was absent.

"It's me," he said.

As if it would be anyone else.

He could sense the main room was empty before he got in. Laying the tub down on the kitchen counter he looked all around. The balcony doors were open and the wispy drapes were blowing in the breeze. Nobody was outside. There were a few pieces of model airplane lying on the coffee-table. A book he had tried to persuade Starsky to read was open, face down on the floor. Hutch could tell he had hardly got beyond page two or three. A pillow and coffee cup were down there too.

"Starsk?"

He peered in the open bathroom door. It looked like no-one had been in all day, although the lid to the aspirin bottle was open. Hutch picked it up and counted the contents through the brown glass. That was what he was reduced to.

His own bedroom door was open, revealing the tornado that had swept through this morning. Starsky's door was closed. Hutch knocked but did not wait for a reply. He went straight in. It was empty. The bed was rumpled, the blind still closed.

You've been trapped in here for nine days, buddy. Why don't I feel you've been here at all?

Quickly he scouted for a message, imagining the words he wanted to read. Hutch, went to ride the elevators, just for a change... Thought I'd go down and thank Benny for the newspaper... Hutch, had to go out and get a quarterpounder, I'm going crazy in here...

He had said he would not leave the building, not unless he talked to Hutch and they had a plan. The constant, creeping anxiety was beginning to turn to abject fear. Hutch left 1810, jogging down the corridor to the elevator. What was he going to do? Check every floor? Go and visit all the offices, ask the people if they'd seen a guy with dark curly hair and a zoned-out expression wandering around?

What the hell has he gone walkabout for? What does he want? What's he looking for?

Hutch got into the elevator and his hand hovered over the buttons. Where to start? The basement? What would Starsky do down in the basement with all those cars?

No, no, no, don't think that. You surely haven't got this so wrong. It's the gun. The gun is the thing. That's what they've put in his head. There's no guns in the basement.

The elevator abruptly started to move before Hutch had made his decision. The light of the '9' was on. OK, so don't start at the bottom, don't start at the top. Start halfway down. There was a judder as it stopped. Hutch was pressing the button for the Ground Floor before the doors had even swished open. The pad of his finger was sweaty, his chest tight.

"Hey," said a voice in surprise. "Whatchou doing here?"

Hutch blinked. Starsky was standing outside the elevator. He had a cup in his hand and was barefoot.

"Ya going up?" Starsky went on, stepping inside and hitting the button.

For a second Hutch thought he was going to throw up. As the elevator door closed again he had a wild desire to punch Starsky, and something of that must have been transmitted. Starsky took a little step back. "It's OK," he said uncertainly. Then, "Gee, Hutch, you look like you're gonna fall down. You feelin bad?"

Hutch covered his mouth with his hand. He felt his eyes drifting closed. As he dragged them open he was aware that Starsky had a hold of him under one arm.

"Where in hell have you been?" he demanded, shaking off the hold. "What were you doing down there?"

Starsky indicated the cup in his hand. "Ran outa sugar," he said. "I went to find some."

A disbelieving laugh huffed out of Hutch. "On the ninth floor?"

Starsky shrugged. "What difference?" he said reasonably. "Just figured I'd try it as it's my lucky number. Nobody answered up on our floor. Think we're alone up here."

The elevator stopped.

"Ya coming out?"

Hutch was still rooted, stiff with rage, his head swirling. He stepped out on to the purple carpet. Starsky was padding up the corridor.

"You went out without shoes," Hutch said.

Starsky turned his head, frowning. "Was only visiting the neighbors," he said. "They thought it was kinda funny. Got the sugar too."

He picked up the newspaper and stood waiting obediently at the door of 1810 for Hutch to find his key.

"Not very smart, Starsky," Hutch said as they got inside. "What are those people gonna think... they're gonna know you're up here now."

"Am I the man in the iron mask or something?" Starsky said. "I don't think the kinda people who work here are gonna be bumping into Mitchell McCarthy out there... Hey, Mitch. We seen that cop. He's living secretly in an office block and we can get you in." He narrowed his eyes at Hutch. "You OK now? Seemed a little shaky back there."

"I didn't know where you were," Hutch snapped. "I was... worried."

"Oh. I see." Starsky gave the glimmer of a grin. The little trip out seemed to have ignited a spark of good spirits. "Whatcha doing home so early anyhow? What's going on?"

Hutch sighed. He felt drained. He took off his jacket and holster and dropped them on a kitchen stool and then went and flopped on the couch. The comfortable couch. His eyes shut again. "Just took a chance on it being quiet the rest of the day," he said. "I brought you ice-cream."

"Thanks. It's melting."

"So put it in the icebox."

The phone rang and he heard Starsky going to answer it.

"Good afternoon. Hutchinson Heights. Can I help you?... Oh, hi, Cap... Yeah, I'm fine, just fine... Hutch is here, yes... he's kinda tired, though. I'll give him a message... no, really, it's OK, Cap, you can speak to me. I can still understand words... OK... no, I didn't know that... he didn't say... didn't even know he'd... they what?" Hutch shifted, opening his eyes. The good spirits had drained right out of his partner's voice. He pushed himself up to sitting. "Say again, Cap. Tell me again how many... yeah, I got that... OK. No, I'm fine... Yeah... bye."

Starsky stood with the receiver balanced over his hand for a moment. Then he replaced it and went into the kitchen.

"Tell me," said Hutch.

Starsky got a spoon out of the drawer and levered the lid off the ice-cream tub. "You saw Jermaine the other day?"

"Yeah, I... yeah."

"And he said there were more bodies?"

A nod.

"Well they found some of 'em. Four. Two in a house in Westlake. Two more on Ridgeway. You want some of this?"

Hutch shook his head.

"What else did he say? Why won't you tell me this stuff, Hutch?"

"Because it's hard, Starsky. I can hardly stand it, never mind you."

"Yeah, what else did he say?" asked Starsky doggedly through a mouthful of raspberry ripple. "And don't lie to me."

Hutch bounced off the couch. It really didn't need the mouse-cage. Give it time, they were going to eat each other right up here on the eighteenth floor.

"He asked me if I was keeping you away from your pistol."

Starsky stared at him. He swallowed the ice-cream, picked at it a bit with the spoon and then dumped the tub aside. Then he gestured at Hutch's jacket with the dripping spoon. "Being a bit careless, Blintz. Right out in the open. What if you'd gone to take a shower? I should go and find a good hidey-hole if I were you."

"That's right, Starsky, push the buttons."

Starsky turned away. He threw the spoon towards the sink where it landed with a metallic clatter, spattering blobs of pink.

"Why were you on the couch this morning?" Hutch asked his back.

Starsky turned around again, agitated. "I can't remember," he said. "That's God's honest truth, Hutch. I can't remember."

"Did you speak to Rita? She told me she was going to call."

"She musta got too busy."

It was like banging his head against a wall. Hutch was not sure if he could keep on doing it. But then... he felt like that every day, and somehow he was still here. Staring up this blind alley.

"Do you know what we're looking at here, Starsky?" he demanded. "Do you realise that either you see Rita or psychs or whoever... someone who knows how to deal with this, how to help you out... either that... or sooner or later..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. The men in white coats. Tell you, I can see them coming both ways. Either Rita or Dobey. Makes no difference. You know something, Hutch?"

"What's that?" Hutch had to hand it to him. Starsky reeled him back in every time he thought of wriggling free.

"I think I'd be doing better if I was out there looking for McCarthy myself, not stuck in here driving you nuts."

"You're suspended. You go out there, you're through."

"Ain't I through anyway?" Starsky asked. "I can't think straight anymore. I don't feel in control. Nothing makes any sense."

Hutch flopped himself back on the couch. His partner was still standing where he was, looking to Hutch doubtfully, utterly lost in this big room.

That's why I'm here, Starsk. Only thing between you and the drop.

He reached down to the floor and picked up the pillow. "Here, buddy," he said. "Catch."

*

He had left him on the couch again in the morning, wound around the pillow, his breathing deep, all the spasms of his early, unwilling sleep gone. Starsky had only just crashed after a night of refusing to give in to it, fighting it off, too scared of what would come if he did. The four hours Hutch had got at the beginning of the night while Starsky meandered around the apartment with the TV on were going to have to get him through the day.

Now it was nearly midday and he was wondering what time he should call. The buzzing of the squadroom sloshed in and out of his consciousness. He really wanted to call. Not just to check that Starsky had not fallen overboard while he was gone, but because he had good news.

Five files, Starsk. Five people found. All alive. Don't know what day of the week it is, but still alive.

The files were on his desk. Rita Riley was dropping by to get them later and he was hoping to have another talk to her. Also on the desk, amongst the half-finished reports and stern memos from Captain Dobey on matters as diverse as air-conditioning and broken swivel-chairs, was an envelope from Detective Del Rey. On the front a penciled scrawl: 'Hutch: latest from Marcus. FYI'.

FYI.

Hutch picked up the envelope and tipped the contents in front of him. Flimsy pieces of notepaper, all covered in looped, red handwriting cascaded on to his desk. Some pages held only a few words. Others were full of dense lines of verse written on both sides. There were some holes where the pen had gone through the paper with the force of its handler.

This would be the Complete Works of Simon Marcus, volume nine.

Dean and Del Rey had been conscientious about sending it all to Hutch, just so he could see how the foundation stone of all this madness was progressing. It was more of the same. Weirdly powerful invective about dreams and blood and stars and death. Hutch read them all glumly. He knew he had to, just in case. The lesson of the last months had been to never discard anything, to concentrate on detail, to read between the lines. There did not seem to be much between the lines of exploding stars and apocalyptic darkness except more exploding stars, and Hutch knew well what that represented to Simon Marcus.

Come on, phone. Ring. Ring and tell me we've got McCarthy. Tell me we can begin to climb out of this pit.

Then his eye was caught by a page with two lines only scrawled on it, and ringed in red. He picked it up and read it through.

"Polaris will die all alone," it said. And underneath that,

"IS HE ALONE NOW?"

It was the same bold capitals, addressed exclusively to him, that he had unfolded in Judge Jaeger's courtroom. WHERE IS STARSKY?

Hutch snatched up the phone and dialled. It rang and rang, a melancholy tone in the wilderness. When a voice said, _"Good afternoon, and welcome to the roof dungeon. Can I help you?"_ he was taken by surprise.

"Star... it's me."

_"Well hello. You've called just in time to stop me chewing off my feet."_

"I... you OK?"

_"Me? Fine. You sound a little spooked."_

"No, I just... I just got some good news, Stars. Really good news. We've got some live ones. Peter van Rensie... remember him?"

A guarded silence.

"He's been found, Starsky. Alive and well. And four others, buddy. Did you hear that? Five of the missing -- all alive."

_"Alive,"_ repeated Starsky's voice.

"Yes. You hold that thought. And listen, Stars..."

_"Mmmm?"_

"Tomorrow... tomorrow will be the last day I'm here for a while. I'm taking some time. At least until the IA investigation. I'm going to stay with you. OK?"

_"OK."_

"Good. I'll see you in a while."

_"All right... Hutch?"_ The voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Yuh?"

_"Thanks for calling."_

Not a problem. Thanks for still being there.

Hutch stuffed the pages back in the envelope.

*

"I've been out again," Starsky said nonchalantly when Hutch came through the door, this time with two bags of groceries.

"Yeah, where you been?" said Hutch, deciding not to be mad about it.

"Round the other side." Starsky had a little film canister in his fingers and he rattled it. "I got lots of shots of Ridgeway. At least, I think it was Ridgeway. Hard to tell."

"Yeah?" Hutch laid down the bags. "Why'd you do that?"

Starsky looked nonplussed at the question. "Well, Ridgeway..." he said. "I miss it."

Hutch smiled. "I know you do. So, what does it look like from up here?"

"Kinda long and thin."

"And did you get your place?"

Starsky picked up his camera from the counter-top and patted it. "She loves the zoom. Reckon I picked it out. Lots of green. Seems like a nice place to live."

There was a real flicker of warmth in his voice, that was like balm to Hutch's soul.

"You'll be back there soon."

"No word on McCarthy?"

"Not yet. But this case is really coming together. That guy... van Rensie... he's not so far gone that he can't help... could be we might find all the other missing. Chances are now that they could be alive."

"You reckon?"

"Well why not? Maybe we've turned the corner."

Starsky gave him a half smile. Hutch was not sure whether it was to ensure that the mood was not lost, or whether it was really from the heart, but it was a smile nonetheless. A smile that lifted that worn, weary face for a second.

"Did your mom ever make you milk puddings, Starsky?"

"Did she what?"

"Ever make milk puddings?"

"Well she'd 'a got them thrown right back at her if she had. What are you on about, Hutch?"

"Milk pudding," Hutch said. "Helps you sleep. We've gotta find something. You can't stay awake forever."

"You're right, but I'm not eating any puddings. Come on, willya. Get serious. I thought I'd try some of those pills -- you know, the ones they gave me at the hospital after... it all kicked off."

"OK. That's a good idea. You gotta get your strength up to face IA. You'll have to come in, you know."

"Can you believe it?" said Starsky, "For the first time in my life, I can't wait to see them."

"Well tomorrow I'm going to check up on them, see what they're planning."

"And then you're staying here?"

Hutch was as casual as he was able. "Sure. If you think that's a good idea."

Starsky matched him. His shrug was almost imperceptible. "All right," he said. "We'll give it a try."

*

Long after daylight the next day, Starsky woke up in stages. There were little echoes in his head, of voices that he might have dreamed. Only he could not remember a dream. He was stretched out, very warm, the downiest of pillows under his head. Moving his toes he was aware that a quilt was on him rather than a pile of blankets. Out of his dulled brain a realization. He was not on the couch. He was in bed. Where he had gone last night, having taken two more of those pills than Hutch had realised. A sneaky double dose of chemical sleep. His head felt like it had been flattened between two large stones.

Groggily he sat up. The bed felt huge. Unnaturally huge. When he thought about how huge it seemed, how quiet it was, how he did not know what time it was, what day it was, or what he was going to do from this moment onwards, his heart started to pump violently. He could feel it in his head.

For a while he sat on the end of the huge bed, contemplating the door and wondering how he was going to get up and go through it. A part of his brain told him that it would be normal to go to the bathroom, so he did that, finding his hands trembling when he reached for the faucet. They trembled, too, when he scoured the bathroom cabinet for aspirin. There were no more. Eaten them all.

The only thing his body felt like was water. No food. No stimulants. Nothing but water. He drank two glasses. Before him on the kitchen counter was his camera and the roll of film. Starsky slit his eyes against the pain now drumming through his skull and then took some tottering steps across to open the door to the balcony. Air rushed at him. The sounds from below. The warmth of the sunlight. The brightness made his eyes ache.

Going back to sit on the couch, Starsky realised with a stabbing sensation of fear that he suddenly had no way of blocking out the thoughts he did not want. He had woken up with no barrier in place. It had disappeared in the night.

*

"You leaving already?"

Hutch turned in his stride away from the squadroom and half grinned at the ironic question. It was coming up to nine pm.

"Well bye then, slacker... hey, Hutch!"

Hutch turned again, some five steps further away, still moving.

"Yeah?" Not so good-humoured this time.

"Hey, your phone's ringing in here. You want to take it?"

Hutch stopped, hesitating just a second. He turned and retraced his steps. Wasn't it always the way?

He picked up the receiver, bumped the line 2 button and said, "Hutchinson," in as much irritation as he dared.

There was a little silence on the other end of the phone, a speaking silence. Then a tired-sounding voice said, _"I think you need to come, Hutch."_

Starsky. Sounded like he was floating away.

Hutch switched the receiver to his other ear.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

_"I'm scared of this, Hutch, really scared..."_ A pause. _"Don't want to be here no more."_

"Where are you?"

_"At home,"_ Starsky said faintly. _"My home. Ridgeway."_

"What in hell are you doi...? OK, OK. You're there. You called me. That's good, Starsk. Now I want you to stay right where you are. Go... sit on your couch and wait for me. I'll be there real soon. Can you do that? Starsky?"

Another silence. Rough breath sounds on the other end of the line. _"Don't want to put the phone down, Hutch."_

Hutch steadied himself, wound his voice right down. He shut his eyes, willing himself to strike the right tone. Starsky sounded fractured, out of touch. "I have to get to you, Starsk," he said. "Now, listen to me. You picked up the phone and you called me. That's good. Now all you have to do is wait for me to get there... that's all. It won't be long. You just sit down, and I'll be right with you."

He had no thought of asking Starsky to promise to stay where he was on the couch. He already knew the answer to that one. There was only one thought in his mind. Does he have another gun in the house?

 

Down in the lot he was unable to think for a while where he had parked his car. Marshall-Daneman was only ten minutes from Parker Center on foot and Hutch had not been driving lately. The LTD had been sitting in here for weeks, and the Torino was still parked up outside Venice Place. Not unsurprisingly, when he found it, the bane of Hutch's life did not spring into action as soon as he turned the key in the ignition. It spluttered. As plain as day Starsky's voice came through to him. Jesus, Hutch, this car is going to be the death of me.

*

The lights were out at Starsky's apartment on Ridgeway.

Hutch went up the outside steps already saying his name. The door was shut but opened when he pushed at it. He got his hand to the light-switch and pressed it on. Nothing happened. That was bad. Starsky did not do well in the dark right now.

Under his feet there was still the crunch of broken glass. The place was more or less as it had been the night he was jumped by Defoe, McCarthy and Boyd Black. Once forensics had finished and it was no longer a crime scene it had been left just as it was, and Starsky had been ordered, much against his own wishes, not to come back.

"Starsk, tell me you're here," he said out loud, and although there was no reply his eyes caught a movement ahead. Starsky, sitting against the wall that separated the kitchen from the main room, had raised his hand. Hutch moved closer. Starsky had one knee up, one leg stretched out, his head tilted a little back, a pose of exhaustion rather than relaxation.

Hutch dropped down by the bent knee. He searched Starsky's face. His partner's eyes were screwed up against the light. Only there was no light. Hutch put out a tentative hand. The backs of his fingers touched on Starsky's cheekbone.

"Starsk? What you doing down here?"

Starsky kept his eyes closed. "Blew a fuse," he said. "Got scared. Dropped it."

Hutch gave a quick, hunted look around the floor. Over by Starsky's right hand, just out of reach, was a dark, heavy object. His heart in his mouth, Hutch eased back up out of his crouch.

"What you drop?"

Starsky's head tilted back up. "Dad's gun," he said.

"Can I get it?"

Starsky looked at him. "If you like."

Hutch reached right across him, stretching out his hand and getting hold of the handle of the gun. He brought it into his chest as he came back to Starsky's other side, sitting down next to him with his back against the wall.

"It's loaded," Starsky said.

"I can see that." Hutch rolled open the stiff barrel and cupped his shaking hand for the shells. Starsky moved his head to look sideways at the glinting objects. Then he shut his eyes again, bringing one hand up against his forehead.

Hutch shifted to put the bullets in his pocket. He turned the gun over in his hands. Standard issue New York City Police Department weapon from fifteen years ago.

"You never told me you had this."

"No?"

"You don't keep it very clean."

"Got better things to do."

"Uh-huh, so what are you doing with it now?"

Starsky lifted his head again. He brought up his other leg and rested his arms on both knees. Each movement was slow and completed with difficulty. His posture was limp.

"Starsk... tell me what's happening here."

"I never promised you, Hutch. I never said it, did I?"

"No, you never said it... But maybe you thought it, huh?"

"It would work," Starsky said. "In one way, it would work."

"Work how? Make it go away?" Hutch asked, snatching at random guesses in the dark.

"For me... but not you I guess."

Hutch was nearly comforted. There was Starsky showing appreciation for the consequences of his actions.

"That enough to stop you?" he dared to ask.

"Dunno."

"So..." Hutch nudged his knee against Starsky's. "Why'd you decide to call me?"

"Feel better when you're around," Starsky mumbled.

"Yeah?" Hutch was surprised at that. He had begun to wonder whether he was, in fact, bad medicine. Starsky seemed to get worse every day, further away, harder to reach. "Well that's why I'm going to stay around." He took advantage of this open door that his partner seemed to be offering him, even while expecting it to slam in his face at any minute. "'D'you come here for the gun, Starsk? That why you've been thinking about Ridgeway?"

Starsky let his shoulders rise and fall in an approximation of a shrug.

That was when they both heard the sound of something falling in the bedroom.

Hutch was alert instantaneously and Starsky reacted to his movement by grabbing a fistful of his sleeve. Hutch was up in a second, and when he was dragged back by the power of his partner's grip he had to reach down and prise off Starsky's fingers.

"Just going to take a look," he whispered, already drawing out the Python. "Stay right here."

The bedroom door was half closed. Although silence had followed that first, odd thump, now Hutch could feel, by the prickling at the back of his neck, that someone was in there. When he pushed the door with his heel it swung right open.

He stayed where he was, adjacent to the door frame, his gun in both hands held up next to his face. No-one emerged, but then there was a clomping noise right across the bedroom by the window. Hutch went in.

A figure in the dark. Not by the window. Behind the door. Even as he began to turn, something hit him so hard in the jaw that he let go the gun.

Hutch staggered backwards, out of the bedroom. His legs were taken out from under him by something solid that the backs of his knees made contact with. He tipped over the side of Starsky's couch and fell down, the side of his head bouncing on the floor. His eyes stayed open only briefly.

Starsky did not move, but Hutch thought he heard him make a sound.

It's OK, Starsk, I'm not dead!

But then he checked out.

*

He seemed to be all in a heap when he came to. The slowness with which he regained his senses suggested that he had been out for some time. The apartment was darker than before, as if hours had passed. He could hear nothing. His chin was still resting on the carpet and when he rolled his head he could see right across the room, could see that Starsky was no longer sitting against the wall opposite.

Hutch got on to his knees. His skull and jaw throbbed in time with each other. As he got up on his feet he was swaying a little from side to side. There was nobody in the room with him. And nobody in the bedroom. He bent low to search the floor for the Python but it was not there. He turned slowly towards the bathroom.

A little glow came through the window from the light on the street outside. It fell across the white tiles. Hutch got a hand to the door-frame and veered inside, still unsteady. Blood on the floor. Hanging where he was Hutch stared dizzily around.

Blood up the wall. Spattered up the wall. Dripping off the glass of the shower cubicle door. The inside of the shower full of it. A man's legs sticking out. Hutch took a staggering step forward. A body collapsed into the small space, shards of broken glass all around. The face was still recognisable, turned slightly into the drain.

Hutch heard his own breaths going in and out very fast. He dipped down to make sure. A changed face, but one he knew. Unusually clean-shaven with short dark hair. It was Mitchell McCarthy. A bullet had gone straight in the side of his head, point blank. It had only just happened -- the small entry wound was oozing a reddish-black.

Sensing someone behind him Hutch spun around.

"What are you... oh my god, Starsk."

In the far corner, behind the door, crouched down small, was his partner. Starsky had one arm wrapped right around his ribs. His head was resting on his other hand, his face and shirt spotted with blood. Hutch let his feet root him to the spot. He let his muscles freeze. He felt like he had to stop breathing.

Starsky's hand was holding on to Hutch's Python. It was gripped in his fingers and he was resting his head on it. Without moving Hutch's eyes swivelled disbelievingly back to McCarthy, taken out with one shot, and then to the corner again. Starsky showed no sign of being aware of his presence although his eyes were open, looking across at the shower.

Up to now Hutch had been relying on a mixture of guesswork and intuition. At this point, however, he dredged his memory for something more, for what was supposed to be the right thing to do. Taking a half step backwards, away from the corner, moving very slowly, he let his arms drop gradually down by his sides.

Starsky's head lifted. He tightened his hold on the Python. "Go away," he said.

"No," said Hutch. He began to lower himself down on his haunches, getting one knee under him.

One shot to take down McCarthy. Still bullets in the gun. He searched his mind. One or two? What the hell did it matter? He's right on the edge. Only takes one to send him over.

"Starsk, there's going to be cops here anytime. Someone must have heard the shot."

"Get outa here, Hutch. Let me alone. I just want to finish this whole thing off."

"It's finished already," Hutch said. "You got McCarthy."

Starsky frowned. "I didn't," he said.

"No?"

Starsky gave a drunken laugh. "Nice kind of a partner you are," he said. "He did it himself." He indicated the gun, and his hand twitched a little. "Couldn't stand the thought of those girls. 'Sbeen hearing them every night." He sighed. "Just like me."

"He's nothing like you though, Starsk," Hutch said.

"Wouldya leave me alone?" Starsky said. "Go away. I can't do this with you sitting here."

"Is that right?" breathed Hutch. He shifted his knee forward very slightly so he had moved an inch or so across the floor towards the corner. Starsky did not seem to notice.

"He took the easy way," Starsky went on. "Didn't give them that chance." His eyes strayed to Hutch again. "Weird isn't it?" he asked. "He wanted to do it. Wanted to shoot himself. Him first, then me." He just tapped the side of the barrel against his head and Hutch felt his guts turn to ice water.

"It's my gun," he said. "Would you give it to me please?"

"I can't," Starsky said.

"You can, Starsk, you can. Just bring it down, and hand it over." And Hutch held out one palm towards him. It was too soon.

Starsky flattened against the wall behind him. "Go away," he repeated. "I told ya. Gonna do it anyway, Blintz. I'm ready. Not afraid."

I'm supposed to be the best in the business. You said so. I'm supposed to talk you down. Hutch withdrew his hand and stayed very still. There were lines of pain etched down Starsky's face.

"Head hurting, buddy?" he said, the words rushing out even though he was trying to be measured.

Starsky jostled the Python a little bit, as if to make it more comfortable in his grip. "Nothing makes sense," he said. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing anymore. I'm scared of it all, Hutch."

"I know," Hutch said. He had just heard faintly, in the distance, the sound of a siren. He did not know if this would make things better or worse. Starsky appeared not to have reacted to the sound. He was winding himself up again, looking at the Python. Hutch moved his knee again, sliding a tiny distance across the floor.

"Didn't help them, Hutch. Didn't do a goddamn thing. Just looked at their eyes. God help me, their eyes, Hutch... " His voice fell away. Now his hands were trembling. Still he looked down at the gun. Hutch shifted again, a little further this time, a little quicker. "There's only one way to get those eyes outa my head." He looked up suddenly, staring at Hutch, seeing how close he was.

Hutch came off his knee. He stretched out his hand once more, got his fingertips to the gun and tried to slide them around the barrel.

"Don't fight me," he said. "Don't you fight me."

Starsky's hold did not release.

"You're not going to do this, Starsk," Hutch said. He pulled at the gun, but gently. "You're going to take the hard way. Know why?" He did not expect a comeback and did not get one. "I'll tell you why, buddy. Because, if you go your way... you go alone." He ducked his head a little, to get back into Starsky's eyeline. "But if you take the other way... I'll come with you. Every step of the way." He felt the gun easing towards him. The sirens were getting louder now and Starsky's eyes suddenly registered them.

"They're here," he said in resignation. "The men in white coats," and he gave Hutch the ghost of a little smile. Then he let go the Python and watched as it slid safely into Hutch's hands. Hutch rocked back slightly on his heels.

*

The cordons were up around Ridgeway once again. 

The street was bathed in the pulsing red light of the first black-and-white to get there. Its back door stood open ready to take a suspect from the scene of the crime. The uniforms hung back, nervous. Behind the squad car Jason Dean and Luis Del Rey had arrived. They could see Hutch coming down the steps of Starsky's apartment. He was leading Starsky by the arm but he did not have cuffs on him.

As Dean reached him, Hutch handed him his Python. "Get what prints you can," he said. "As quick as you can. Should be three lots."

Dean's eyes flicked to Starsky. "Is he OK?"

"He will be," Hutch said.

A uniform stepped back to let him guide Starsky into the car. He followed and shut the door behind them. Next to him, as the car started up, Starsky was beginning to shiver like a wet puppy. Hutch reached across himself and brought the dark head into his shoulder. His partner had been utterly, frighteningly silent since he had relinquished the gun. Almost catatonic. Hutch's eyes challenged the uniform in the mirror to say anything. He slipped his other arm round Starsky and enclosed him with it, feeling him jerk from the occasional force of some emotion.

The lights of the city whirled past them. Hutch knew Starsky had his eyes shut tight. There was no resistance in him now. He just lay against Hutch's shoulder, hiding from the world. God knows what lay ahead. Hutch remembered the feel of Starsky letting go his grip of the gun and the sad smile that said he knew he was beaten. He bent his head down so it knocked lightly against his partner's.

"How you doing now, Gordo?" he said, his fingers punctuating the words with a light pressure against Starsky's scalp.

He felt Starsky trying to stop shaking, trying to form words. "Think... there's a few cracks," he whispered disjointedly.

Hutch stroked the back of his head. "That's alright," he said. He looked out of the window at the neon flashing past and thought of IA, the post mortem on McCarthy, of Rita Riley and men in white coats and Starsky furious and afraid. They were moving away from the edge, but it seemed like an impossibly long way back, his own importance almost too much for him to bear. He could feel the dampness of sparse tears on his shirt-front. "Never mind the cracks, Starsk," he said, holding on tighter than ever. "We'll just paper over them."


End file.
